


Leave Not in Silence

by misura



Category: Outcasts (TV)
Genre: F/M, Morning After, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:24:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Tipper doesn't really </i>get<i> opera.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Not in Silence

Tipper doesn't really _get_ opera.

It's loud and way too much drama and occasionally not at all kind on the ear, and most of the time, you can't make out a single word to clue you in what these people are making such a bloody big ruckus about. (He _gets_ loud, yes - he _gets_ how life makes you want to yell sometimes, let it all out with a good screaming fit that's not going to change anything for one bit. He got over it, some time back himself, but eh. Some people are just slow learners.)

"It's culture," says Stella, and he pictures her, all dolled up and high class and so far out of his league he shouldn't even bother to try, because he's got a brains, all right?

(He's an idiot, and he knows it.)

(She's beautiful and smart and competent, and only aware of two out of those three.)

She says: "I wouldn't expect you to understand," and her tone is kindly, almost motherly - feeling old, then, this morning, and doubting herself and the choice of them, just a little bit. Just enough to make him feel he has to work for this, that he can't go and take this for granted.

(He _knows_. Dear God, does he know. He used to have sisters, and wished he hadn't, on some days, even if on most days, he was aware of how lucky he was. Small blessings, considering.)

"Oh, I understand it," he lies, to keep her talking, and here, for just a few brief extra moments. "Just don't care for it myself. All that caterwauling gets on my nerves."

"You're a barbarian," she says, but fondly - and they both know who could be slinging who over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes here, who's got the physical strength to enforce her will and who's only trying to make an honest living with nothing but his wits.

(Well, fine. Not always entirely, one-hundred percent honest, perhaps.)

"Hey," he says, "you're the one who brought along a pair of handcuffs - and on our first date, even."

"Just being practical," she says, and there's a slight flush to her cheeks that Tipper knows isn't a blush.

"Practical? Is that what you call it?"

She turns her head. "I have to go." It's not an invitation, a request to give her an excuse, some reason to stay a little bit longer. It's a statement, a fact.

The closest she ever gets to saying 'goodbye'. (Or 'so long, and thanks for the sex'. Not that Tipper flatters himself in that department, but it could be a mutual thing, a polite thing.)

"Be seeing you around, then," he says, and a bit later, to the closed door: "Take care of yourself out there, won't you?"


End file.
